


Pas de deux

by Tofu_is_amazing



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Dancing, M/M, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 19:33:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12659985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tofu_is_amazing/pseuds/Tofu_is_amazing
Summary: Five years after Sam leaves for Juilliard, Dean finds himself working a case in New-York City. When he sees posters for the New-York City ballet with Sam right in the middle of them, he tells himself he'll go to one representation to make sure Sam is doing alright. That's it, see the show and leave. But in true Winchester fashion, things don't go quite as planned.





	Pas de deux

He’s too close to the stage, way too close. At least if he was in the back row, hidden in the dark where no one can see him, he could be sheltered, could hide in the darkness and behind of all the people sitting in front of him. Rows and rows of comfy red velvety chairs to protect him from the big empty stage and the person about to walk on it. Dance on it.  
But there’s only one row of chairs in front of him. Just one row and no one sitting right in the seat in front of him. This is a disaster, and he can only blame it on himself. He paid for that seat, actually paid for it. He doesn’t remember the last time he really paid for anything that wasn’t food. 

The theater is huge, and the space where the orchestra usually plays has been filled with seats to make room for more people. There’s a balcony above, full with people already seated and waiting for the show to begin. They’re using their programs as fans and there’s a constant buzzing sound in the grand room, the murmurs of hundreds of different conversations going on at the same time. It makes Dean a little light headed, and he feels like an intruder here. The program he was given is crumpled in his fist, but there are posters on the walls, that all show the same thing. Ballet dancers, right in the middle of their performance. And a soloist just on the edge of the poster, as if he was trying to escape the spotlight. Sam. 

_ Le Jeune Homme et la Mort. _

Dean’s palms are sweating and his legs is bouncing repeatedly. The woman next to him keeps shooting him worried looks, but she’s not worried for him. She’s scared for herself. He tries to smile reassuringly to her but it must comes out forced because she looks even more frightened now. Well, at least he tried. 

There was a shapeshifter in New-York, whose behavior was erratic enough that Dean was able to pick up on it reading the newspaper. In a city this big, it’s rare to find cases. The monsters are usually just humans in places like this, or know how to behave just a little less crazy than them to not draw unwanted attention. It speaks volumes about humanity that it works. 

That’s also why Dean hates big cities, with the noise and the light and the people. It’s never quiet, it’s never soft and silent. He can never find a good parking spot for the car, spends all his time worrying someone is gonna steal it from him, and if he doesn’t want to catch ebola just taking a piss he has to spend way too much money on a decent hotel room. 

New-York.  
He doesn’t know if he never went here before because there really were no cases or if he unconsciously avoided looking too much into it before. But here he is.  
And so is Sam. 

Somewhere, in this huge beehive of a city, is his baby brother. Has been for close to five years now. And during all those years, Dean hasn’t heard a word from him. Not that he offered any of his own either. He’s got Sam’s number on his phone, has been hovering over the “call” button a million times since that day he left Sam at the bus station, but never got the courage to call. What would he say anyway? What could he possibly say? 

People are still filling in the room and Dean breathes a sigh of relief when a tall man in his late sixties wearing a black tuxedo sits just in front of Dean. Small mercies. 

It’s been easy to find the shifter and kill it. He’d been wearing the same skin for too long, and had left a trail of dead bodies behind him that Dean only had to follow to find him. It took him two days and he was done. Coming out of the sewer relatively clean, he had decided to walk back to his hotel, to try to at least see what the big apple had to offer.  
Central Park was way too clean and organised to really qualify as “nature” but it still felt better than the endless rows of skyscrapers. He took his time in there and walked out on a side that seemed a little less crowded. That’s how he came to walk past Juilliard, and where he saw the posters. 

Of course. Of course he couldn’t have made it through this city intact. Of course he’d end up seeing Sam. 8.5 million people, and of course he sees his brother. Plastered on dozens of posters, half of his face hidden behind that hair the way he always did, both protecting himself and protecting others. Of course. Sam, wearing white tights and ballet shoes, dark makeup around his eyes and a fierce expression on his face. It’s just been five years, and he’s already a soloist in the New York City ballet. It’s not surprising. Sam was born to dance the same way Dean was born to hunt. Both require violence, both require skills. Both are worlds apart and both are the same exact thing. Just like Dean and Sam. 

Dean snatched one of the poster, his mind already made. He could stay one more night, could do this. Dad would never know. Last time they’d talk, he was hunting something down south in Louisiana.   
Dean looked quickly at the students coming and going, all of them carrying instruments in their cases, all of them looking proper and respectable. He never felt so out of place. 

Except tonight. The lady sitting next to him is wearing a pearl necklace that Dean would bet his life on is worth more than the Impala. All the people gathered here tonight are wearing tuxedos and shiny dresses. They keep hundred dollar bills in their wallets and will most likely drink champagne out of flutes before the night is over. 

Dean’s the only one wearing a worn down leather jacket and jeans with holes in the knees. He hasn’t shaved in a couple of days and didn’t have time for a shower before the beginning of the show. He’s pretty sure he still has some of the shifter’s guts on his shirt, and he definitely smells of the sewer. 

“It’s for Sam” he thinks.

He paid for this seat, for the almost front row where he feels uncomfortable and too exposed. For Sam that he’s sweating and keeps wondering if he shouldn’t just leave because what the fuck is he doing here anyway. For Sam that his mouth is too dry and his heart beating too fast in his chest. For Sam that he stayed in New York instead of leaving the second he killed that shapeshifter. For Sam that he checked his reflection in the mirror in the restroom. Twice. For Sam. All of it. 

He’s trying to find the nerve to actually leave when the lights dim and the theater is plunged into complete darkness. The conversations stops and for a second it’s complete silence. Dean can hear the red curtains open, closes his eyes and hates that he’s able to open them again. He feels a little better in the darkness, but has no doubt that the people on stage can see at least the first three rows. Doesn’t matter, he’ll stay for just five minutes, just long enough to see Sam, to see what 23 year old Sam looks like, and then he’ll leave. 

The first notes start playing, and the show begins.

The first dancers come on stage, twirl and dance with practiced ease, graceful and making it look so easy when it’s anything but. Dean sees the muscles in their legs, arms, sees the sweat making their foreheads shiny. He looks and gets absorbed in the dance, forgets for a second why he is even there. Just listens to the music, and looks at the dancer. 

But then Sam comes on stage, and the world stops. 

The ballet is about a young man waiting for his lover to come visit him. He gets more and more upset as time passes and his lover doesn’t show up. He’s desperate by the time she finally joins him but she doesn’t care about his distress. She’s violent and cruel, mocking him when he threatens to kill himself. Eventually he does, after she leaves him for good. The last act shows Death meeting with the young man, and both of them walking away. 

It’s tragic, it’s terrible, and Sam keeps dancing. He is that young man, practically possessed in his desperation. He twirls on a stage to suddenly seems too small to contain him. He runs from one side to the other, looks anguished and afraid.  
The music fades and Dean forgets the theater, forgets the lady with the pearls next to him, forgets that he wants to hide and instead sits up on his chair. He doesn’t see the woman he’s dancing with, couldn’t describe her face even if he wanted to. He just sees Sam. 

It’s stupid, to have assumed that years would have changed Sam so much Dean would perhaps have failed to recognize him. Because Sam hasn’t changed at all. Same defiant stare, same strength and stubborn determination, same grace in his movements. His hair is longer, and under the make up Dean can see that Sam’s face is sharper, has lost it childish roundness. But it’s still Sam, soft lips, straight nose and hazel eyes.  
Sam. 

Dean brushes his cheek and his fingers come away wet. It’s been five years, and it’s been five seconds. Everything comes slamming back, memories banging against the walls of Dean’s mind. He sees Sam’s hands where they’re waving in the air and can almost feel them grabbing his arms, tugging him closer. He looks at Sam’s lips and his own twitch with the memory of their kisses. He stares and stares and stares and Sam keeps dancing, doesn’t see his brother having a complete meltdown right in front of him. 

When the young man hangs himself, Dean is halfway out of his seat with the sudden urge to make this stop. The noose around Sam’s neck is making him anxious, and it’s only the disapproving frown of the woman sitting next to him that reminds him that this is all fake. By the time the dancer who plays Death takes Sam’s hand and leads him away, Dean has trouble breathing and doesn’t remember his own name. 

It lasts an hour or six, Dean is not sure. He’s out of the theater before the lights come back. He wishes he could stay to watch Sam bow under the thundering applause, sweaty and happy and real, but he can’t.   
There’s no way Sam wouldn’t see him.  
So he flees. 

He did what he came to do, saw that Sam was doing good, better than even. He should leave. That’s what Dean keeps telling himself.   
__ Leave.  
_ Leave.  
_ __ Leave. 

Two hours later he’s sitting in a nameless strip club, pink neon light assaulting his eyes and something that tries to pretend is beer in his hand. He doesn’t know why he’s here, doesn’t really remember even walking to this place, but now he might as well finish his drink. Women are dancing, losing piece after piece of clothing on small stages while men are whistling and throwing money at them. It’s a different galaxy after the theater, and yet strangely similar. Here the movement are less guarded but no less graceful. 

And Dean could care less. All he sees is Sam, the way he danced, how confident he looked.  
Dean has been wrong. Sam has changed. He’s not a scared boy anymore. The Sam who danced on that theater’s stage wasn’t scared of anybody. That Sam was strong and sure of himself, knew his body and its limits. That Sam was endless. 

The Sam Dean remembers was not like this. His body was growing too fast for him, and Sam didn’t know what to do with his gangly limbs. He was shy and nervous around strangers, aggressive and petulant with Dean and their dad. He was a growing boy, a little lost, a lot confused. And he danced. In front of all the mirrors he could find, and in front of Dean when he couldn’t find any. He went en pointe in his chuck taylor and read about ballet in all the libraries he ever went to. The only day Dean remembers not seeing his brother dance was that fateful one when he left for Juilliard, a mostly empty duffel bag on his shoulders and a roll of twenties shoved in his pocket by Dean. That day Sam didn’t dance. 

Dean can still taste the salt of Sam’s tears on his lips, likes to pretend they weren’t his own. There was no space for words between them, just hands grabbing and pulling and trying to hold on to this moment, this fragile “them” that would be destroyed the second the bus would take Sam away.  
Dean doesn’t like to think about that day.

He takes a swig of his beer and stares at the dancers without really seeing them. He’s not here for this, isn’t for anything really. He’s still got half of his drink and the bartender has been shooting him loaded looks for the past ten minutes. He might feel out of it but he’s not that blind and any minute now she’ll trot over and start flirting. Dean doesn’t let her, just grab his beer and walks away, not in the mood - and doesn’t that say a lot? - and looking for a place to sit. He does so in an empty seat next to an empty stage. It’s dark and quiet there - as quiet as it gets in a stripclub anyway - and he can breathe a little better. 

He still feel like he’s barely managing to keep his paper raft afloat in the storm that’s taken over his mind but once he’s out of this city he’ll feel better. 

He can already see it, the endless road, the horizon, the car and the music, his music. No Strauss and violins but Lemmy and his bass. 

_ Both your eyes wide open _ __  
_ You see the shape I'm in _ __  
_ It wasn't of my choosing _ __  
_ It's only bones and skin _ __  
_ And I will plead no contest _ __  
_ If loving you's a crime _ __  
_ So go on and find me guilty _ _  
_ __ Just one more fucking time

Yeah, Motörhead is just what he needs right now. In a week, it will feel like a dream. He will forget how the velvet seat felt, will have trouble remembering the price of his ticket or the number of his seat. He will find a new case, a State or three over, will become someone else, and when he’ll scroll down to Sam’s name on his phone, he won’t call. 

Things will go back to normal. Maybe he’ll catch up with Dad and they can spend a few days together. It’s been a month now since they haven’t seen each other, two weeks since they last called each other.  
Dean is not worried though, and knows dad isn’t either. It’s strange but there is just something he knows he would feel if something had happened. Dad is fine, he’s absolutely certain of it. Sam seemed too. Actually, Dean might be the only not okay in their crazy little dysfunctional family right now. How ironic. 

The lights go up on the stage he’s sitting next to, and Dean already mourns the loss of the relative quiet he found there. He considers moving but his back is to the stage and he can pretend the dancer is not there for a little while longer. He stares at his beer, lost in thoughts, can hear people moving closer to the stage and the sound of heels coming on the stage. The music starts and the singer’s voice breaks through Dean’s daze.

__ Angel - put sad wings around me now  
_ Protect me from this world of sin  
_ __ So that we can rise again

Well. This is weird. Not that Dean spends that much time in strip clubs but he’s pretty certain Judas Priest doesn’t qualify as music to strip to. No one even listens to Judas Priest anymore, except for sad fucks like Dean who are stuck on classic rock and will never admit to like the group’s ballads.  
But thing is, Dean loves this song, has forced Sam and their dad to listen to it countless times on the road. He sang his heart out to it, overdid it with the mannerisms to look like a moron and not let anyone see how fucking real this was for him. 

__ Oh angel - we can find our way somehow  
_ Escaping from the world we're in  
_ __ To a place where we began

He closes his eyes for a second, secretly thanks whoever’s on stage for picking that song because that’s exactly what he needed right now, something to ground him back. The electric guitar is liquor to his ears and he hopes he can drown in the lyrics. He remembers countless trips on the road, grins as he almost hears Sam’s groan when the song was coming up and he had to listen to it one more time. 

It feels like being home again, it smells of leather and loaded looks in the rearview mirror. It tastes like sweat and dirt under their fingernails. He can remember humming the song as he was peppering his brother’s back with kisses, escaping Sam’s hands trying to push him away because “I’m trying to study Dean”.   
Popsicles, peanut butter and banana sandwiches. Mixtapes and Twizzlers. Sam wearing that rose scented lip-gloss, making his lips sticky and shiny.  
Sweet sixteen.  

__ And I know we'll find  
__ A better place and peace of mind  
_ Just tell me that it's all you want - for you and me  
_ __ Angel won't you set me free

He mouths the lyrics along with Rob Halford and lets his head fall back against his seat. Next to him, some patrons have moved closer and are wolf whistling to whatever the girl is doing on stage. He can hear clothes falling on the floor, and always the sound of those heels. He wishes everyone would just shut up, would enjoy the song instead of the inches of skin the girl is slowly revealing. 

__ Angel remember how we'd chase the sun  
_ Then reaching for the stars at night  
_ __ As our lives had just begun

He shoves his hand down his pocket and finds a crumpled five in there that he carelessly throws on stage, not paying attention. He’s not sending money for her number, he’s saying thank you, for good music and peace of mind. For making him remember what it felt like to be happy, truly happy.   
He suddenly misses Sam fiercely, not the one he saw barely a couple hours ago, but the one he grew up with. He misses his little brother, so badly he knows the night will end with a bottle of good old Jack and a pack of smokes in his hotel room. He doesn’t think he can take it anymore so he gets up and turns around, ready to leave this place and this song and everything he thought he could find in this city behind.  
What he’s not expecting is the gasp he can clearly hear above the music. 

_ When I close my eyes I hear your velvet wings and cry _ __  
_ I'm waiting here with open arms - oh can't you see _ _  
_ __ Angel shine your light on me

When he turns his head and finally takes a look at the girl on stage, he thinks for a second that that’s it, he lost it. Lost his mind his sanity and everything. Because clearly there is no other explanation for what he is seeing,  _ who _ he is seeing.  
It’s that angel alright. The one Rob Halford is singing about. Probably not looking the way it is in the song, because there more glitter and less wings on this one but it’s an angel all the same. Dean’s chest feels cracked wide open, smoke leaving the broken ribs in long filaments and twirling around the words he’s not saying, can’t say because the earth fell off its axis and nothing is right anymore. 

__ Oh angel we'll meet once more - I'll pray  
__ When all my sins are washed away  
_ Hold me inside your wings and stay  
_ __ Oh! angel take me far away

He’s barely wearing anything now, miles of skin for the hungry eyes to devour. But it’s Sam. Up on five inches heels, shaved legs and panties embroidered with forget-me-nots. There’s a dark shade of red lipstick on his lips, and winged eyeliner making his eyes even more slanted than they usually are. There’s a rosy blush on his cheeks and glitter making his face sparkle in the most obscene way. 

Patrons are throwing dollar bills and kisses on the small stage and Dean wants to send all those kisses back against those lips. A furious beast is waking up in Dean, one he’s ashamed of and that he hates but somehow it feels like greeting an old friend back. It’s been years since he last felt that way, five years to be specific. Dean is jealous, angry and wants to grab Sam and hide him away from the world, where he’s the only one who gets to see him, to really see him. Under the glitter, under the panties and under the make up. Just Sam, bare to the world and to Dean. Not specifically in that order. 

The song is still going in the background but Sam is not moving, mouth half open and staring openly at Dean. The red that’s taking over his cheeks has nothing to do with the cheap blush he’s applied earlier, and he blinks faster and faster, looking on the verge of tears. 

It lasts for an eternity, where Dean is so lost he doesn’t know what to do. But when he comes back to his senses the song just ended and everyone is looking at them, most people confused and wondering why Sam stopped dancing, why he’s still wearing some clothes at all.  
It’s Sam that moves first. He collects the dollar bills on the stage and the clothes he dumped during his act, and his hands are shaking so badly Dean almost wants to help. 

“Follow me.” 

Sam’s voice. Five years and those two words are crashing over Dean, make his throat tighter and his vision blurry. It’s just two words but Dean is already intoxicated, feels lightheaded. He hates it a little because Sam said it almost like a question, like there’s still a possibility that Dean is gonna bail, is gonna turn back and leave him there, standing in stilettos on the small stage of a shady strip club in New-York. He’s not even sure his legs would listen if Dean actually wanted to turn around. He doesn’t trust his voice but nods once, walks around the stage where a bulky guy in a black shirt let him walk through the backdoor after Sam gave him a nod. 

Dean follows his brother and the sound of those heels, can’t understand what’s happening but this is real, all of this. He’s there, Sam’s there, it’s the closest they’ve been in five years and it feels like no time has passed at all. He’s not sure what century it is, what’s his name and where the hell is heart is gone. But there is one certainty and it’s the  _ clac clac clac _ of Sam’s heels on the floor. 

Walking behind his brother Dean realizes that more things have changed. Sam is taller than him, even without the heels it’s obvious from here. At the bus stop an eternity ago they were about the same height, even if Sam felt so small in his arms. Now Dean can see the muscles, the graceful strength under that skin. Sam is built, in a delicate way, limbs thin and almost feminine in a way, unless the outfit is what gives Dean the impression. He blushes furiously when his eyes find the silk panties, almost transparent. The blue forget-me-nots are mocking him and leave nothing to the imagination. 

The image superpose itself with the one of Sam dancing in the theater earlier that day. How different, how similar. They reach something that looks like a common changing rooms, where a mirrors are covering an entire wall and a few tables are covered to more make-up than Dean has seen in his entire life. Clothing racks are neatly aligned on the other side of the room and Dean can see a lot more leather than he’s comfortable seeing, which says a lot. There are benches in the middle of the room and a couple lockers on the side. Sam goes for one of those and opens it, grabbing a duffel bag in which he shoved the money he made that night. His back is to Dean and Dean can see his shaking hands looking for clothes in the bag. He eventually finds them but doesn’t turn around and that’s when Dean sees how tense his brother is, shoulders hunched up and muscles strained under the skin. Dean walks closer, each of his foot weighing a thousand pounds, and tentatively reaches with one hand to touch Sam’s naked shoulder. 

“Sam?”, he gently asks, and that’s when the duffel bag falls to the floor. 

One second he’s reaching for Sam’s shoulder, the next two strong arms are holding him close to Sam’s chest, where he can feel how fast Sam’s heart is beating, unless it’s his own, he’s not sure. He’s got a mouthful of Sam’s hair in his mouth and Sam is mumbling, shaking and crying at the same time. Dean can barely move his hands around Sam’s back, but when he does and buries his own face in Sam’s hair, Sam seems to break apart in his arms. He’s crushing Dean against him and yet Dean is the one holding him, holding them both even if Sam is the bigger one now. 

But his brother either doesn’t notice or doesn’t want to. Sam is making himself smaller, trying to fit under Dean’s chin the way he used to when he was little. It doesn’t really work but Dean will be damned if he doesn’t try his best to be the taller one just this once. 

“Dean, Dean, Dean”. 

That’s all Sam is saying, crying in Dean’s arms and leaving a mess of tears, snot and make-up against Dean’s shirt. 

“I’m here Sam, I’m here, shhh”. 

They stay like this for a while, eventually sinking to their knees when exhaustion is taking over. A couple girls and boys try to come into the room but slowly back out when they see Sam and Dean curled around each other on the floor. Sam is sniffling against Dean’s shirt, his arms still like iron bars around Dean’s chest. It doesn’t matter, there’s nowhere else Dean would rather be than here, right here, forever. If he can die right here, right now, he’ll go a happy man. 

“Sammy?” 

There’s only a whine answering him but Sam eventually releases him a little, lifting his head to finally let Dean see him. Sam’s face is a mess, black mascara coating his cheeks and lipstick smeared across his mouth. His eyes are as red as his lipstick and he looks fragile, ready to break into a million pieces. He’s the most beautiful person Dean has ever seen. 

“Are you really here?” 

It’s just a croak and it makes Dean’s heart ache because it’s been five years, five years since he last saw his little brother, and it’s not how things should have been. Not ever. He said he’d come see Sam, said he’d call, and Sam did the same. And neither did anything. Because what? Because they were both terrified? Because they were both angry? Maybe a bit of both. Dean hates those five years. 

“Yeah, yeah I am”. 

And here they are, those eyes, staring at him. Sam is unravelling just in front of him and there’s nothing Dean can do. 

“Are you staying? Please say you’re staying.”

Dean can only nod, doesn’t even think about it because Sam could ask him to drain the oceans right now and he’d say yes.

“Promise. You gotta promise Dean.”

And Dean does. Even believes it as he speaks the words. 

“I promise. I’m gonna take care of you. I’m gonna take you care of you. I’ve got you. That’s my job, right? Watch out for my pain-in-the-ass little brother?”

And he believes every word right this moment. Screw the job screw dad screw everything, he’s gonna stay with Sam. There are so many questions he needs answers to, this side job of Sam, this club, the heels, the makeup and the ballet. But right now it doesn’t matter because all he needs is right there in his arms, looking at him like the sun just rose on his face. Sam tears up again but not before Dean gets a glimpse of that oh so familiar smile. Shaky and gone in an instant but there for a half second that Dean wishes he could steal and hide between the pages of a book. 

It’s an explosion when Sam’s lips finally, finally touch his. Those five years between then and now are suddenly meaningless, are just a day. They’re still there, them and real and alive. Brothers. There is love in that kiss, devotion and relief and faith. All wrapped up into one. Dean’s hands comes to rest against Sam’s cheeks, holding as the press of lips against lips is getting more frantic. He doesn’t know if Sam kissed anyone else during those five years, knows in the back of his mind that it’s silly to assume he didn’t. But right now he hopes that kiss is making Sam forget his mouth ever belonged to him. 

Tomorrow reality will catch up to them. They both know this isn’t meant to last. Because Dean can not live here and Sam can not leave here. But tonight Dean promised and tonight he meant it. Meant it as much as he means the kisses they’re sharing in that dirty changing room. He’s sure he’s got as much lipstick on his face than there is on Sam’s, and hopes it sinks beneath his skin and that he’ll still be able to taste it in the weeks to come. 

He already knows he will leave this town with a collection of bruises all over his body, teeth marks and moon crescents left by fingernails on his back. He wants them, will treasure them until they’re just a memory. Because it’s how they are, how they’ve always been. Violent in their own way, ready to die for the other because their love is destructive, raw and will lead them to their deaths. 

One day, they will die because they love each other too much.  
But not tonight.

  
  
  



End file.
